Cream of Crop Showers

“Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” —Langston Hughes Cream of Crop Showers The world seems smaller, inside within quarters, no sun. But the yellow wonder is like lightning outside, not done. Inside there is the brightness of the youngest grand. Consuming all the rays of sunshine, each grain of sand. The community park would burn within minutes our skin, so the schoolager finds friends, swings his arms to win. The VR helps a bit on closeted days that aren’t cooled by rain. Those greedy clouds won’t spill their shimmering champagne. With “cream of crop” showers, I imagine us stomping, making pies with mud, running through the streets, splashing, loving the rise. Dare the lightning to strike, we’d grab our swords and fight. We’d reduce its commotion locomotion to a wee little light. All wet, with flip flops flying like frisbees into puddles deep. We’d be like fish, who don’t care if they’re slippery, and leap. The skies today hold promise, covering over the brightness. Will the heavens lie to us today or do they hold forthrightness.